Emotion, Devotion
by chatnoir06
Summary: COMPLETE. My first RENTfic. A little backstory to :Close on Roger : his girlfriend April left a note : saying We've got AIDS : before slitting her wrists in the bathroom...:
1. The Discovery

I could hear the distinctive sound of Roger's fender as I hiked up the stairs to the loft, my bike hoisted over one shoulder and messenger bag slung over one shoulder, precious camera hidden inside. The sound made me smile. Seeing Roger smile and write music and be in love made me smile. I was glad to finally see him happy. It was just the drugs that bothered me…but I let it slide to the back burner most of the time.

For winter in New York City, it was pleasant outside. The air was crisp and generally warmer than it should have been. Not that I complained—it meant we didn't have to bother paying for wood, and that was a comforting reprieve.

I sucked in a breath as I finally reached my floor, grateful to have finally reached the end of my hike. I set the bike on the ground and rolled it toward the huge sliding door.

Something stuck to the door caught my eye.

I pulled up to the door, the sound of Roger and his guitar coming through the door strong and sure. There was a yellow post-it stuck to the door and I slowly peeled it off, feeling my breath leave my body.

_We have AIDS._

"The fuck…" I whispered. I turned the piece of bright paper over in my fingers, searching for a signature or something. There was nothing. The scrawl on the front of the note was jagged and smeared, and I could detect traces of dried droplets of water—tears, most likely. I could imagine whoever had written it must have been shaking and crying, too afraid to say it aloud.

And yet, I knew exactly who it was from. _April._

I slid open the door. Roger was splayed on the ragged couch, his back to me. When I opened the door, he looked over and grinned, apparently missing the grim look on my face. The glance he gave me made my stomach turn—somehow I thought that whatever was written on that note had to be a joke, it had to be. Roger couldn't have AIDS. Not Roger. Not my best friend. Not April!

"Mark!" he said jovially, then turned away, back to his guitar. He was blasting out the chords of his newest song. If I had not just pulled the horrifying note off of our door, I probably would have remarked how good it sounded.

"Roger." I said quietly. He continued to play. I ventured into the loft, leaning my bike against the wall. "Roger, stop playing."

I had no idea what the message on the post-it really meant in the long run, but my heart was pounding.

"Roger! Listen to me!" I shouted finally.

The chords on the guitar died out into a very painful silence. Roger leaned his arm on the couch and turned to me, eyebrows raised.

"What?"

My hand was trembling as I held my hand out, holding the paper pinched between my thumb and middle finger. He squinted at it, then put his guitar on the couch beside him and rolled up onto his knees, leaning over the back of the couch to get a better look.

"It was on the door." I whispered, feeling as though no greater sound would come out of my throat.

Roger took the note from me and looked at it for a long time, I don't know how long. It felt like forever as he pored over the three words. _We have AIDS._ Fuck.

"Shit," he said finally, and he vaulted himself off of the couch and was running for the door.

"Roger, wait!" I shouted after him, but he was gone. I took off after him.

He was a flight below me as I flew down the staircase. April lived about a block away in loft housing like we did—illegally, like we did. As I ran, I could hear one word floating through my feverish brain: _Fuck._ Over, and over. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ This couldn't be happening.

I pushed through the heavy exterior door right after Roger did. He was already way ahead of me, but I pumped after him. It didn't occur to me that I had never taken off my bag—now it flopped hopelessly at my side, almost painfully as the camera inside collided with my hip over and over. I grabbed it with one hand to keep it from smashing into me and bolted onward.

"Roger!" I shouted after him as he disappeared inside April's building. I got there only seconds after he did, but it felt like I was a lifetime behind him. Luckily, April was only on the second floor. I didn't have much farther to go.

I could hear Roger screaming her name well before I hit the landing of the second floor. Ahead of me, I could see that he had pushed open her door. I ran inside and found him looking around hopelessly.

There was no April.

"Where the fuck is she?" Roger panted. I wasn't sure if it was an unconscious thought that he happened to speak aloud; he probably wasn't aware that I was there with him. He moved farther back into the loft, shouting her name. I dropped my bag on the kitchen counter, my heart pounding from both fear and the run, and proceeded to help Roger look.

I heard him murmur, "Oh shit," from around the corner. I jogged over. Roger was looking at the bathroom door. April's bedroom, right next to it, was wide open and dark. The bathroom door, however, was closed. Tentatively, as if expecting the worst, Roger approached the door and called her name again through it. He tried the handle—locked. There was no response from inside.

"I'll find something…for the door…" I said, turning and frantically searching for something, anything that would help pry open the door.

"No, no time!" Roger said. I started as his frantic cry was followed by a vicious slam. I turned and saw him throw his shoulder into the door. It bowed but did not open.

I did not know what to do. Dumbly, I stood there, having forgotten the search for a makeshift crowbar. What was Roger going to see when he finally crashed in the door? I dared not even imagine.

Again, Roger's shoulder connected violently with the door, accompanied with a groan of pain. I winced, growing tenser and blatantly terrified. I was shaking.

Finally, Roger slammed himself into the door and the lock gave way. He tumbled into the bathroom, catching himself on the broken doorknob.

The first sound I heard after that was the strangest sound I had ever heard come out of Roger's—or anyone's, for that matter—mouth. It was strangled, desperate, horrified, disbelieving. A wail unlike anything I had ever heard. It wasn't human. And it didn't stop. If there were words spoken in that unending howl of grief, I didn't understand any of them.

Against my better judgment, I moved closer to the door. Roger had fallen to his knees. She was on the floor of the small bathroom, quite dead. I had seen dead bodies before—homeless people died constantly in the night in Thompson Square Park—but never one from a suicide. The sight of April's limp, pale body, blood oozed around her wrists in dark, coagulated puddles, was enough to make me gag.

I wasn't sure what did it—the sight of her dead body or the sound of Roger's wailing—but my stomach heaved and I backed away from the door. I turned away and breathed in deeply, hoping it would help, but I found myself bolting for the kitchen anyway. I retched and leaned over the sink. After I was finished vomiting my knees felt as though they would collapse. I had enough sense to thrust on the tap water before sliding onto the floor and leaning against the counter.

I leaned my face on my knees, feeling a cold sweat come over me.

The worst was the sound of Roger's weeping. I wanted to block it out but I could not make it stop.

The implications of everything that had just happened in about five minutes were barely starting to creep over me. My best friend had AIDS. His girlfriend had killed herself after finding out that she obviously, too, had it. The idea of what was to happen next wasn't even a thought in my mind; it seemed to fucking abstract to begin with.

I brought my head up and leaned it against the counter. I could feel tears creeping down my cheeks out of the corners of my eyes but I made no effort to stop them. What was the use?

I wasn't sure how long I sat there but I eventually became aware of the fact that Roger's cries had slowly become quiet. I reached up to the edge of the counter and pulled myself up onto shaky legs. I felt like shit. The tap water was still running, but had mercifully rinsed away my mess. I turned it off and slowly shuffled to the corner.

Looking around it, my eyes fell on Roger, who was sitting on the floor blankly, partially leaning against the broken door. He had blood on his hands and I could see his handprints on the shitty tile in the bathroom where he had obviously crawled to her. The sight of the blood made my stomach turn again but I forced myself to hold it. I could not, _could not_ lose it again, not in front of Roger. I already looked terrible—more pale than usual, a cold sweat standing out on my forehead and tears streaking down my cheeks.

But he looked worse. The light in his eyes was extinguished, completely. He looked as though he could have died right there alongside April. I don't think he even registered that I was standing there. He looked like he was about to fall over, and I didn't blame him.

Feeling about ready to collapse again, I put my hand on the corner of the wall and slid down to a seated position near him. Luckily, I could not see April from where I was.

As I moved into a seated position on the floor, Roger flicked his gaze at me. His lips parted as if he started to say something, but nothing came out. Tears spilled over his cheeks and he inhaled sharply. I didn't know what to do, what to say. There seemed nothing, nothing in the entire world that would come to me at that moment in time.

"I don't get it." Roger said to me. His voice was strained and hoarse, and came out as nothing more than a dead whisper.

"I don't know, Roger." I murmured. "I don't know."

Then the thought occurred to me: we had to get her out of there. I rolled my head absently around, looking for a phone.

Roger read my mind. "It's by the door."

Again I heaved myself to my feet, feeling so weak it was unbelievable. I felt as though I were dreaming; everything was surreal. Somehow I found the phone; somehow I found three numbers: 911.

I leaned against the wall as the phone rang and finally the dispatcher picked up.

"911, what is your emergency?"

For a moment I lost myself. I couldn't think of what to say.

"Hello? Do you have an emergency to report?"

"Yes." I said finally. "I'm calling to report a suicide."


	2. Coping

I opened my eyes into direct sunlight and immediately squinted them shut again. I felt overly warm, most likely from lying under the blankets in the warm winter sun. And yet, I had no desire in my body to move.

As the events from yesterday came crashing over me again, I groaned and turned over, unwilling to face the world quite yet.

A dark shape moved in front of the blinding light. I cautiously opened one eye.

"Hi there, Honeybear." Maureen said gently. For some reason her comforting voice made me want to start crying again.

The events of the hours that followed the discovery of April in the bathroom were a complete blur to me. I dimly remembered being on the phone with the dispatcher at 911, then sinking to the floor again until the police and the paramedics arrived. Roger and I were both questioned while they took April's body out into the street and into the ambulance. I didn't remember much after that; but knew that whatever happened included being escorted back to our loft, where I found Maureen, who had gotten home while we were gone. I think she had started to berate me for leaving the door wide open until she saw us both—looking like zombies, Roger with blood still spattered on his clothing and hands, and me looking about ready to throw up again—followed by the police, who left promptly after—thankfully explaining the situation to Maureen, so that I didn't have to recount it.

Roger didn't stick around long. I collapsed on the couch and saw him escape into his room and never saw him come out the rest of the day. Maureen took me in her arms comfortingly, but I was still frightened and nauseous. The last thing I remembered from that afternoon was throwing up again and then retreating into our bedroom where I crashed until Maureen greeted me the following morning.

"Gotta get up. It's almost noon." Maureen said.

I groaned and turned over, burying my face in the quilt. There was no way I was going to get up quite yet. My body felt incorporeal, not right.

Maureen sat on the edge of the bed and I felt her hand rest on my side. I breathed in the musty scent of the quilt and sighed audibly.

"Why me?" I said, my voice muffled.

"What?"

"Why'd I have to see that?"

"Oh, Pookie." Maureen said as she leaned over me. I could feel tears slip down my eyelashes as my throat constricted. "Come on out. I'll make you something. Are you hungry?"

I really wasn't, but I nodded an "okay" anyway. Maureen leaned over and kissed the bit of my head that stuck out from the blankets and then rose, making her way out of the bedroom.

I lay there for a few more minutes and then turned over, staring at the ceiling. I flung off the blankets and sat up slowly. I found myself still dressed in everything I had been wearing the day prior, sans coat and glasses. I rubbed my eyes and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, fumbling on the table nearby for my thick, black-framed glasses. It seemed to be taking every ounce of willpower just to fucking get out of bed.

When I finally managed to stumble out into the expansive, empty living room, I found Collins sitting at the couch, newspaper in hand, and Maureen rummaging through the cupboards for something worth cooking for breakfast. Collins looked up at me.

"Hey man." He said. I could hear the difference in his voice—softer than his normally jovial, booming tone. I couldn't blame him. "Good to see you up."

"Thanks." I murmured.

Roger was nowhere to seen. His bedroom door was, however, open. I scrunched my face up in confusion.

"Where's Roger?"

Collins had returned to his reading. "Up on the roof. He's been up there all morning. I don't think he's coming down."

I slumped into one of the mismatched chairs at the table. Maureen was still searching in the kitchen.

I heard her murmur "Shit," when she obviously came up short. I sighed and laid my head on the table.

"Don't worry about it. I'm not hungry anyway."

Maureen turned and leaned against the counter. "You gotta eat something, Pookie."

In response, I rolled my forehead from side to side on the table: _nuh uh._

Maureen sighed and sat on the counter top. So many thoughts were suddenly rushing through my head.

"What the fuck are we going to do?" I said suddenly, sitting up so fast that I got dizzy. Both Maureen and Collins looked at me. "Roger, and the AIDS, and…and, and April…funeral…what—what are we…what are we going to do?"

"Hey man, hey. Calm down." Collins said. He stood up and dropped his newspaper on the couch, making his way over to me. I couldn't help it, but my heart was pounding. I put my head back on the table as Collins dropped a hand onto my shoulder. I felt like crying, no, sobbing. I couldn't get the image of April lying on the floor, bloody and limp, out of my mind.

_Don't cry, Mark. Don't do it. _

I heard Collins say, "It's not as bad as it seems. The worst is over, man. Come on."

"_Fuck!_" I shouted at the floor.

"Yeah." Collins murmured dejectedly as he leaned against the table next to me.

I sat up and leaned back in the chair, blinking back rogue tears. Maureen was looking at me sadly.

"Well, look man." Collins said. "The cops called her parents, and they called us. They'll pay for the funeral."

"They called to tell us that?"

"No, they called to talk to Roger. But he wouldn't come out of his room."

"It was about eight last night. You were out." Maureen said. I nodded slowly. I was somewhat surprised that April's parents had actually bothered to call Roger. Better than him calling them, I figured.

"I should go see Roger." I said suddenly, getting up. Collins shrugged one shoulder half-heartedly. "I mean…you think? Just to…just to check on him."

"If you want." Collins said.

"Well, I…I do want to. I was there, too." I wasn't sure why I added the last sentence, but it hurt me more than I thought it would.

"Pookie…" Maureen whispered.

My coat was lying over the back of the couch, near which was my bag and camera. I grabbed the coat and slipped my arms inside, then headed to the door.

The roof was about three flights up, but it was reclusive enough that I didn't wonder at Roger's choice of a hideaway. I was surprised he had even left his room. When I finally reached the door, I pushed it open, flooding the interior stairwell with sunlight.

It was slightly colder than it had been yesterday, with a chilly wind blowing by. The heavy door slammed shut behind me as I stepped out onto the roof. I couldn't see Roger at first; he was hiding somewhere between the massive steam pipes and boxes.

It didn't occur to me until then that allowing Roger to be up on the roof by himself maybe wasn't the best of ideas. But Collins knew Roger, and apparently he figured he wouldn't kill himself up there. I wasn't so sure.

Roger was leaning against a wide steam pipe. He wasn't wearing a coat or a scarf; but like me, the same thing he had been wearing yesterday—with the exception that he had changed into a shirt that wasn't covered in blood. As I came around the corner, he turned his head to look at me. He said nothing, only took a drag on the cigarette he had in his hand.

I offered a slight, comforting smile. He turned his head back to his view over the city.

"Collins…told me you were up here." I said, thrusting my hands into my coat pockets uncomfortably. Now that I was up here with him, I hadn't a clue what to say. Maybe there wasn't anything _to_ say. He didn't react in any way.

I took a seat on a discarded cardboard box that luckily held my weight. Below us, the traffic roared by.

Several minutes of silence went by. Roger finally blew out the last of his cigarette and flicked the butt over the side of the building. He dug his hands into his jean pockets.

"You just get up?" he said finally.

I looked up, surprised that he had said something. "Uh…yeah. Yeah, just a little while ago." I saw him nod. "Did you…sleep at all?"

He shook his head. "No."

I didn't blame him. I felt almost insensitive that I had slept through the entire night when he was next door, having the worst night of his life. I should have been there for him.

More silence. I was tearing apart my brain, trying to think of something, anything, that I could say.

"You heard that…you heard her…April's parent's called?" I managed finally. I didn't look up at him.

"Yes." Roger replied. "Collins was with me."

"Ah." The mention of Collins being with him to comfort him put me at ease, at least a little more than I had been. At least he hadn't been alone.

And then I was at the wall again. Nothing I could say would lead to anything productive. I started to shiver.

Finally, I blurted out, "What are you thinking?"

I think Roger smirked a little as he gazed out over the city. "What am I thinking…" he mused. "What am I supposed to be thinking?"

I couldn't tell if it was a rhetorical question or not. I stayed quiet.

"There's a post-it note on my front door telling me I've got AIDS." Roger said after a minute. "What am I supposed to think about that? My girlfriend offs herself in her bathroom, and here I am. Alone. HIV Positive. And not having a fucking clue what to think."

"I'm sorry." I said, truly regretting ever bringing it up.

"I'm dying, Mark. What am I supposed to be thinking?"

"You're not dying." I said. Roger looked away. "Everyone dies."

"Great. I'll just do it before everyone else." He said cynically. I bit the inside of my lip. God, what to say now?

"Well…I could go out on the street and get hit by a bus, and then…" I tried to smile, hoping that he would too.

"Shut up, Mark." He said. It wasn't cold or harsh, but it was obvious what he meant: _Stop trying to be funny. You're not funny today_. I nodded to myself. It was a stupid thing to say anyway.

I stood up and shrugged my coat closer. It was chilly.

"Well I…I think I'm gonna go back inside. Okay?"

Roger turned to me and nodded slowly.

"Are you gonna come down? Soon?"

Another nod.

"Okay."

I turned and started to walk away. I could feel my throat constrict as I walked. I didn't get far; I was soon followed by the sound of Roger's voice.

"Hey Mark?"

I turned back. "Yeah?"

Roger was looking out over the city, but he his head to me after a moment. "I'm sorry."

I blinked. "What for?"

"That you had to see that, yesterday."

I thought as though my mind had been wiped away. I could not think of anything to say to that. "Oh, it's….no. Don't worry about it. Don't worry about it." I stuttered. "At least you weren't…alone."

Roger managed a small comforting grin—really it was just the corners of his mouth turning upwards briefly—and nodded, taking out another cigarette. I swallowed down the sudden grief that had washed over me, and turned back to the door leading to the stairwell.

Once I had stepped inside, an immense wave of emotion rolled over me. I stumbled down the first two steps and then I caught myself, leaning against the rail. _This couldn't be happening._ I managed to fumble my way down the stairs to the loft and slipped inside.

Collins was gone; Maureen was absently filling in the crossword puzzle in the newspaper as she leaned on the table.

"Hi Honeybear. Collins went to get—"

But she stopped, realizing that I was not only not paying attention, but moving very fast into our bedroom and barely hiding the tears that were streaking down my face. I stumbled in the door and felt my knees buckle beneath me.

Maureen stepped inside the door to find me leaning against the wall, head on my knees.

"Honeybear, what is it? What's going on?" She knelt by me.

I felt the walls around my conscious collapsing in on me. Everything was falling apart. I could barely keep up with the frantic words that were falling out of my mouth.

"What am I gonna do, what am I gonna do? Roger's dying and—and April's dead and…oh god, what am I gonna do? Why did I have to see her? Why did I see that…oh god…"

Maureen put her arms around me and was making "Shh" noises, which only made me sob harder. I was gulping in air so fast that I felt nauseous again. I wanted to put my head through a wall.

"The worst is over, remember? Just like Collins said. Collins has it too! He isn't dying! Roger isn't dying. Shhh…"

I just closed my eyes and rested against Maureen, forcing the tears to subside. This wasn't right. I couldn't do this. I had to hold it together. _Come on, Mark_.

After a time I heard Maureen say, "There." I raised my head and leaned it against the wall. My glasses were completely fogged over and my face was bleary and red. Maureen laughed gently and took off my glasses, then ran a hand over my face. I closed my eyes, comforted by her touch.

"The worst is over. You'll see." She leaned in and kissed my cheek and I held her close. Her lips traveled to mine and I felt as though everything would melt away.

Maureen always had a way to make things better.


	3. Coffee Conversation

Maureen was still asleep when I peeled open my eyes the next morning. It was cloudy out. No sunshine poured into my eyes. I sat up, blinked, and squinted as I searched for my glasses. After my breakdown the morning before, Maureen had promised me a little something to make me feel better; and she sure delivered.

I leaned over her prone, sleeping form and grabbed my glasses from the table beside her. Once the world had become clear, I kissed her forehead and then slid out of bed quietly. I pulled on a pair of jeans but couldn't find a shirt readily available on the floor, so I grabbed one of the quilts that we had knocked to the floor and pulled it around myself. It reminded me of my days in Scarsdale when I would run around on Saturday mornings with a blanket over my shoulders, pretending to be Superman or something.

I padded to the door and out into the main room, closing the door behind me. A quick survey of the room showed me that Roger was still locked in his bedroom and Collins was nowhere to be found—not an uncommon sight, as he usually went out in the mornings. A quick glance at the little alarm clock on the kitchen counter showed 10:47.

I was just preparing some coffee—if it could be called that—when the phone rang. It sounded twice, then the machine picked up. I rolled my eyes—I still had not changed Maureen's musical message about leaving a tune for us.

The tape clicked on and there was a moment of silence. "Hey. It's Benny. Someone pick up?"

Benny had been living in with us sporadically for a while now, spending his remaining time in Westport with his on-and-off girlfriend, Alison. He had basically moved out shortly after Roger had moved in, a correlation I was not the only one to pick up on.

Leaving the coffee unmanned, I shuffled to the phone and picked it up.

"Hey, Benny."

"Mark?"

"Yeah." I wound the phone cord around my hand while holding my blanket with the other as a makeshift brooch and leaning against the table on which the phone was perched. "How's Westport?" I asked, for no reason in particular.

There was a sigh from the other end. "Oh, you know. It's Westport."

"Ah."

"Listen, I heard the news." Benny said heavily. I was frankly surprised. "I'll be coming back for the funeral. For Roger, you know."

Somehow I doubted that, but I kept my mouth shut.

"When is it?" he asked.

"Uh…sometime next week, I think." I replied.

"Well, if you guys need anything…" Benny said. There was no doubt what he meant by _anything_: money. His new connections with Alison's family had put him in a totally new league. "…I'll be glad to help out."

"I think we'll be okay." I said. Then I sighed. "Her…April's…parents are paying for it."

"I see." A pause. "How's Roger?"

I didn't reply for a moment. "Uh…well, good question." I said honestly. My conversation with Roger yesterday on the roof hadn't cleared anything up.

Benny's only reply was a soft, "Hmm." I held my tongue and rolled my eyes, staring up at the ceiling. "Well okay then. Just wanted to call. I'll see you soon."

"Of course." I said. There was another moment of silence, and then Benny hung up. I placed the phone on the receiver gently.

Pulling the blanket tighter over my bare shoulders I went back to breakfast. My bedroom door opened and Maureen stepped through, wearing one of my long shirts.

"Who was on the phone?" she asked groggily.

"That was our good friend Benny." I replied as I shoveled some coffee grounds into the pot.

"Oh." Maureen said shortly as she sat down at the table. "No doubt calling to brag, I'm sure."

"Actually, he was calling to say that he'd be here next week." I paused. "For the funeral."

"Huh." She mumbled.

I turned around and leaned against the counter, hugging my blanket close. Maureen was giving me a funny look.

"What?"

She grinned. "You look so cute when you do that."

"Better than walking around with this skinny shit out in the open." I said, holding the corners of the blanket open to show my bare chest.

"You could have put on a shirt." Maureen said.

"Not without waking you up." I replied. "I was trying to be _nice_."

"I was already awake. You woke me up anyway. You always kick around a lot after we—"

But Collins' voice interrupted her. "Hey now, I don't wanna be hearing that shit." He said from the door, having just slid it open.

I stared at him for a few seconds before realizing that I was still holding the blanket out as if I was on display. Then, almost in the same motion as one would pull the shutters closed, I hugged it back to my chest as though embarrassed.

"Morning." I murmured, turning back to the coffee that was finally heating up.

Collins closed the door and moved into the apartment, tossing his newspaper down on the couch as he stripped off his coat and slung it over the back of a chair.

"Benny called." Maureen said.

"Did he now?" Collins said, the words distorted by his keys hanging from his teeth. "How kind of a brother."

I snorted and poured two cups of coffee. As I turned back to the table to hand Maureen her cup, my eyes strayed to Roger's closed door and a frown crossed my face.

"I wish he'd come out." I murmured.

"He'll come out when he comes out." Collins said. He took a seat and began reading his paper.

"I know, but…I worry. Shouldn't we…shouldn't he go to the clinic? I mean…"

"He said he doesn't want to go." Collins murmured without looking up from his reading.

"Why not?" I balked.

"His girlfriend just died, man. Not to mention finding out he's got AIDS. In the same day. Give him some time. Denial. It's fucked up." said Collins wisely.

With a quiet sigh, I took a sip of my coffee. I knew that Collins was right. He'd come out soon, and we'd get him to go to the free clinic across the park. It was just the convincing part that would take some work. Roger was too stubborn for his own good sometimes.

I sat down at the table with Maureen.

Maybe for now that was all I could do.


	4. Interruption

The days that followed seemed too much a blur for me to catch much. The majority of the time, Roger was locked in his room. He seldom came out of his own will, once or twice to get a piece of toast and then retreat back into his cave again. Collins dragged him out a few days before the funeral to take him to the free clinic. I don't know what happened when they went to the clinic, but it must have ended badly—upon their re-entrance to the loft Collins sported several bruises on his already dark skin and Roger went back to his room immediately and didn't come out.

"He's Positive." Collins said heavily as he applied ice to the darkening bruise on his arm. "But they put him on an AZT prescription."

Good, I thought. Now the trouble was just getting him to come out of his room and take the pills every day.

About four days after the whole incident began, I realized that I hadn't gone out to film in days. My messenger bag still sat lonely in the same place that I had dropped it after Roger and I had returned from April's apartment. On a whim I threw on my coat, grabbed my bag and dragged my bike down the stairs. I was out all day. And it felt good—better. Better than sitting dormant up in the loft waiting for Roger to come out of his room only to be treated with a scowl and a nasty attitude whenever he_ did_ come out. Better than having nothing to do and being too depressed to even discuss things with Collins. Better than having to talk to my mother on the phone.

Better than having nothing else to do but wait for the funeral.

A week and a day after Roger and I had discovered April in her apartment, I found myself standing before the cracked mirror in the bathroom, adjusting my blue and grey tie. Collins and Maureen had gone ahead to the funeral home to see that everything was in place, leaving me with Roger. It was a prospect I was somewhat unsure about.

As I roved back into the main room I noted that Roger's door was still closed, and the clock on the kitchen counter declared 11:50. We had roughly 40 minutes to get to the funeral home. Plenty of time, even walking.

"Come on, Roger, we're going to be late." I shouted.

No reply.

I gave him a few more minutes, running some water on a small stain on my shirt to rub it out, wiping the smear off my glasses, putting on my coat.

11:55.

I sighed. "Roger…" I said loudly.

When he didn't reply again, I went to his door, knocked twice, and then opened the door.

Both of us spoke at the same time—I said, "We're going to be—" and then stopped, and he shouted, "Shit!" obviously caught off guard.

I stopped mid-sentence because he had a syringe filled with heroin in his hand. The fact that he had never, _ever_ brought smack into the loft before wasn't what bothered me—though the thought occurred to me later—it was that he was evidently planning on attending his girlfriend's funeral doped up on heroin.

"Get out of here!" he said angrily, clutching the syringe in his hand. I felt rooted to the floor.

"What are you doing?" I said. "You're going to April's funeral _stoned_?"

"Get the fuck out of here! I can do whatever I like." Roger snarled. He started to advance on me.

"No! No, you can't! You're not going to the funeral stoned!" I shouted back. I couldn't believe it. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Apparently I didn't have the mind of a recreational user like Roger. If I knew that I had contracted AIDS from shooting up—though in all actuality it was probably April who got it first and then passed it to him—I sure wouldn't be doing it anytime in the near future. But addictions are addictions, and I didn't have one. Roger did.

"Fuck you, Mark."

The words stung and I stared at him blankly, angrily. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. My mind was a blur.

But what happened next was even worse.

Roger stepped towards me, grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, and pushed me backwards into the door frame.

"I said, get the fuck out of here." He said again.

Roger had never raised a hand toward me. We were best friends. It just didn't happen. He had hit Collins before, which I knew. But Collins was a big guy. He could take it. Roger was bigger than me, and he knew it.

I really wasn't the kind of person to say what I said next—but I couldn't help myself. "Fine then. Come and see everyone, doped up. See if I give a shit."

Then I turned and stalked away, leaving the apartment.

If I had stayed, I would have seen Roger put down the needle ruefully.

Maureen was standing outside of the funeral home with Collins having a cigarette when I arrived, alone. I had cooled off some, thanks to the long walk that the trip from the loft provided. Somehow, I had held it together. I was hurt by Roger's harsh words and even more by the fact that he had pushed me, but I didn't cry.

"Where's Roger?" Maureen asked first. "And…what's wrong with your shirt?" She approached me and started fixing my collar and my tie, which had come loose when Roger had grabbed me.

"I think Roger's on his way." I said quietly.

"You think?" Collins said.

I wasn't sure if it was my place to tell them that I had walked in on Roger shooting up right before the funeral.

"We…we had a bit of a scuffle is all. But I…I think he's coming."

"You had a fight?" Maureen said, fixing my tie with wide eyes.

"Well, no…no, he just pushed me." I said.

"Why? What happened?" Maureen asked. I shook my head.

"It was nothing. We were just…messing around. He was a little upset. It's fine." I explained. Collins looked dubious.

"Should we wait for him? Or go inside?" Maureen asked.

Collins checked his watch. "Ten minutes. We should go and at least sit down. He knows how to get here."

_If he's coming,_ I thought bitterly. After what had happened at the apartment, I honestly didn't expect him to come. Not even to his girlfriend's funeral.

But that didn't seem like something Roger would do, I knew that. He wasn't that stubborn, not even these days.

…Was he?


	5. Finale

**Author's Note: Some religious overtones in this one. No intent on offending anyone—but I heard them at a funeral for a friend and I thought they would be right to put in here. **

**I think this is it. I don't see this fic going anywhere else after this, so this is the last chapter. Thanks all who reviewed. I hope to be writing again in the near future. Cheers! **

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Right as Maureen, Collins and I were taking our seats in the third row, I heard the door at the back of the room open. I turned my head.

It was Roger. He was sweating and it was obvious that he had made a mad dash to be there on time, but as far as I could tell, he was _not_ stoned. As he came closer I could see that his eyes were clear. I was somewhat grateful. I was on the aisle seat and stood up to offer him a chair. He offered a slight—maybe a bit remorseful, too—smile but did not take me up on my offer; instead choosing to sit on the other side of the aisle behind April's parents.

When he sat down, they both turned to him. April's mother was crying, but her father stuck out his hand to shake Roger's. I sighed and sat down next to Maureen again. I turned around and caught Benny's gaze. He gave me a slight nod. I offered a small smile and then surveyed the rest of the room—it was a small crowd. Family, all sitting near and around her parents; and several friends and other musicians who apparently knew Roger too, were sitting farther back in the room.

April's casket was displayed at the front of the room—thankfully closed—and was covered with a white cloth, her picture, and a poster from one of her favorite bands. Her parents were obviously religious—Catholic, by the look of things—and therefore had asked for a priest to preside over the services.

During the service, the priest talked of how Christ would redeem April in heaven—a comment that left me confused. Suicide was a terrible sin to the Catholic church, wasn't it?—and how after April arrived in Heaven, after receiving a big "bear hug" from the Lord, she would immediately regret what she had done to leave the bonds of earth and all those that loved her, but Christ would receive her anyway. It seemed terribly fake to me. Especially since April, with her rock music and addictions for drugs and sex, seemed the least likely person in the room to want anything to do with being received in Heaven. But who was I to know?

After a brief sermon about April's life and the will of the Lord, the priest then offered Communion. This was the part I had been dreading—I had always felt out of place attending religious services, even ones that weren't Jewish. So I stayed in my seat uncomfortably while everyone around me—including Maureen and Collins—got up to receive the wine and the little wafer. I stared at the fraying ends of my blue and white scarf as this went on.

I could see Roger out of the corner of my eye. I could see him hesitate before getting up, as if unsure if it was really his place. He wasn't openly religious, but maybe somewhere in his heart he thought it was right.

Afterwards, the priest invited everyone to attend a gathering in the adjoining room in April's honor. Slowly, people began rising from their chairs. Maureen was crying. I took her hand and squeezed it, offering a kiss on her cheek. She had known April the best out of all of us, except Roger of course. She went to see April's parents and I watched her hug her mother and start conversing with her.

As Collins passed me he gave me a clap on the shoulder and a smile. I nodded in return and watched him do the same to Roger, who was still seated. I turned to greet Benny, who had come to join me in the aisle.

"Thanks for coming." I said to him, quietly.

"My pleasure." He replied.

"Are you staying in town long? I think some of us are going to the Life a little later, just to, you know. Get together." I said.

"I'd love to, Mark, but…I've got to get back to Westport. Thanks for the invitation." Benny said. I nodded and hoped that the disappointment didn't show on my face. I had hoped that we could all be together for once, even for a little while. It would mean something to Roger, I hoped anyway. Benny clapped my shoulder as had Collins, and then went to say goodbye to Roger and Maureen.

Slowly, we all filtered into the catering hall in the room next door.

* * *

After the meal, some people stuck around to talk and reminisce. I looked around. Roger had eaten with us, sitting next to April's parents, but had said very little. He rarely looked up and through it all never once looked at me.

Now, though, I noticed he was gone. I looked around some more, thinking maybe he was with his rocker friends, sitting on the other side of the room. I couldn't see him anywhere.

Maureen, however, was. I groaned.

"Better go get her, man." Collins murmured to me. He had noticed her off flirting with one of the underground rock-and-roll stars too.

I rose from my seat and headed over.

She was leaning on the back of the chair with one of the better-looking fellows; he was seated backwards in his chair leaning his back against the table, smiling and chatting away—and not about April.

"Hi Maureen…" I murmured as I approached. She turned and flashed me a smile.

"Hey Pookie." She said jovially.

I cleared my throat. "Um, do you suppose maybe this isn't the best time to be…" I left the sentence hanging.

"To be what?" she replied, immediately offended by my insinuation.

"You're flirting with one of April's friends at her funeral…I just…don't think that's right…"

"Flirting? You think I'm over here flirting? Jesus, Mark, what's your problem today?" she shot back.

I tried to keep my voice down. I knew I wasn't going to win this one, and in all actuality it was probably a stupid idea to even bring it up. Habit, I suppose. "Just…never mind." I said.

"Come on, Mark. Chill out! I'm trying to have a friendly conversation over here and you get butthurt about it like always." I noted her use of the word "friendly". It was one she always used in her defense for flirting. "What are you, jealous or something?"

_Turn away, Mark. Walk away now_. But the fact that she had cheated on me before—and had never admitted it, either—still loomed over my head. That was all I needed. My girlfriend cheating on me with some guy she met at a funeral.

"Whatever. Never mind." I murmured, and turned around. _Oy vey_.

"Lay off, Mark." Maureen said to my back as I walked away.

I started to go back to the table where Collins was sitting, but then I realized that I still couldn't find Roger, and the thought occurred to me that he could have gone back into the chapel itself. I slipped out of the room and headed in that direction.

I opened the door to the chapel and saw Roger. He had his back to the door and was leaning on April's casket. He turned around at the sound of the door, and I could see he was crying.

"Oh—sorry." I said immediately and started to duck out of the door again. It was the second time today I had walked in on him.

But I heard him say, "It's fine."

I poked my head inside again, saw him wiping his eyes, and hesitantly stepped inside. I closed the door quietly behind me.

"I just…I just came to see where you were at." I explained, still standing by the door.

"No…it's okay." He said quietly. He cleared his throat and turned, then sat on the edge of the proscenium where the priest had given his sermon.

He looked terrible.

I started walking towards him and took a seat on the aisle in the second row of chairs.

"About…earlier." I said hesitantly after a few minutes of silence. "That wasn't my place."

"What? Oh. No, that was a pretty fucked up thing for me to even think about doing. I'm…I'm sorry I shoved you around." Roger said. To hear an admission of guilt from him was like a hurricane hitting the Midwest—unexpected and totally shocking.

"No damage done." I said with a slight smile.

"I'm just…having a hard time…dealing with this." He continued. He lowered his head and I could hear his voice start to choke up. "April, and…the AIDS, it's just…it's fucked up."

"I know." I said. I saw a tear slide down Roger's cheek and it made them well up in my own eyes.

"I keep thinking that…that this isn't right, it isn't real. She's not supposed to be in there." He glanced at the casket.

"Of course it's not right." I rose and made my way over to him. I sat down beside him. "But—the worst is over, right?" Now my own throat was constricting on me.

Roger looked at me, his face wet with tears.

"I don't know, Mark." He whispered. "I don't know what's going to happen."

A tear slid down my cheek. "Well, neither do I. But like I said, that bus is probably still out there waiting to get me."

We both laughed, and it was a choked-up, tear filled laugh that breaks the silence as well as the ice. I knew Roger was right. Neither of us knew what was going to happen, and in all likelihood it was going to be hard, whatever happened.

"But as long as you come and visit me in the hospital," I continued jokingly, "it'll be okay."

"I'm glad." Roger said, and I knew it had more than one meaning. I smiled and put my arm around him. We shared a brotherly embrace as our tears dried.

The worst was over, but still yet to come.


End file.
